


Clockwork Kingdom

by NotEnoughAnswers



Series: Shadowhunters [2]
Category: The Infernal Devices Series - Cassandra Clare
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-23
Updated: 2018-04-23
Packaged: 2019-04-26 23:49:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,978
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14413116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NotEnoughAnswers/pseuds/NotEnoughAnswers
Summary: Companion piece toClockwork Queen. A collection of oneshots that take place in that universe between 1878-1978 and weren't in the original story.





	Clockwork Kingdom

**Author's Note:**

> Cross-posted from FanFiction.Net, April 2018.

_**Charlotte and Abby (Chapter 3)** _

**S** he knew she shouldn't do it.

It was invasive, and wrong, and she herself would be furious if the same thing happened to  _her._

But she had to do it. She had to find out where this mysterious girl had come from. Charlotte Branwell glanced briefly over at the bed where she—Abigail Cartwright, an unassuming-enough name—slept, her face peaceful and smooth. The poor girl wouldn't be peaceful for much longer.

Jem was waiting outside the door, and Charlotte entertained the idea of letting him in before just as quickly dismissing the notion. There was nothing he could help her with, but there had been a look in his eyes when he'd brought Abigail to the Institute that Charlotte had never seen before.  _That is none of my business_ , she scolded herself. It was Will she had to worry about, not Jem.

She turned back to the table and picked up Abigail's handbag. Charlotte was inclined to believe that the girl really  _was_  from the future, if only for the fact that she had been wearing men's clothing but was not disguised as a man at all.

Unable to completely hide her guilt, she reached into the handbag and pulled out a yellowed book, its pages worn with time. Charlotte quickly flipped through it, seeing that about half of its pages were filled with a scrawled, almost indecipherable cursive that looked very similar to Will's. She guessed the author would have been a teenage boy or a very young man. Just as she was about to set it down, her eyes caught on the word "Clave" and Charlotte immediately snatched it back to her face, suspicion now taking root in her heart. The girl had claimed that she was a mundane and knew next to nothing of the Shadow World, so what was such a journal doing in her possession?

Charlotte sank down into one of the chairs in front of the fire that Sophie had just tended to and picked up her glasses, knowing that she would not get to sleep that night. She furtively glanced over at Abigail, as if making sure that she was still asleep, before she began to read.

* * *

_**Will and Jem talk about Abby (Chapter 5/6)** _

**W** ill Herondale was many things, but unobservant was not one of them. He could see, plain as day, that the friendship between his  _parabatai_ and the future girl was no ordinary one. Jem was noticeably happier, his eyes brighter, and he laughed much more easily. Will had secretly followed them on one of their trips around London, and Jem had been the most animated Will had ever seen him. As for the girl, well, her actions around Jem spoke for themselves. Will was certain even Henry would be able to notice her increased clumsiness and awkwardness around Jem–she never took her eyes away from him, and always stared at him with her mouth hanging open slightly, as if he was the first man she had ever seen.

Not that Will was  _jealous,_ of course. He did not like Abigail Cartwright—at least, not in the way that Jem so obviously admired her. He was just used to being on the receiving end of female attention. The new girl did not seem to be swayed by his charms at all, and he vaguely wondered if he was losing his touch.

Not that he cared. Of course.

But even so, Will knew that he was indebted to her for making Jem so happy—and he was, indeed, grateful for what she had done. However, Abby didn't need to know that just yet. Will was violently overprotective of his  _parabatai,_ and although he trusted Jem's judgment, he did not want this girl who had appeared out of nowhere to break his heart.

"You appear to be spending a lot of time with future girl," he remarked to Jem one night during their patrol. They were sitting on the bank of the Thames, waiting for the Leviathan demon they'd been tracking for weeks to appear.

Jem grinned, his silvery hair even lighter in the moonlight. "Charlotte did place me in charge of  _Abby's_ training," he said with mock seriousness.

By the Angel, his eyes lit up even when he spoke of her. Will almost wanted to be sick, but it was out of envy—not of Abby, but of the fact that Jem was able to have an experience like that. Then again, all things considered, he deserved love far more than Will did. "But escorting her around London is hardly training," he replied.

"Could you possibly be  _jealous_ , William?" Jem asked teasingly, looping his arm around his dragon's head cane.

Will let out a bark of laughter. "Jealous? Of you and future girl? Of course not. I am to be best man at your wedding, of course."

Jem raised his eyebrows mysteriously and glanced down, unable to quite hide his blush or the smile on his face. Will leapt to his feet, pretending to spot the demon, but inwardly relieved that his  _parabatai_ was so happy.

Little did Jem know he was serious about being their best man.

* * *

_**Will's POV of his attic conversation with Abby (Chapter 17)** _

**I** t was after midnight, and as usual, Will could not sleep. He had retreated to the place in the Institute he knew was his only refuge and where he could calm his racing thoughts: the attic. Unfortunately, it did little to help tonight—not when his kiss with Tessa hours before refused to leave his mind. Her stricken, horrified face after he had told her she was little more than a bedroom companion to him kept appearing at the forefront of his thoughts, and with it came a sickening wave of nausea. He tried to cast his mind farther back, to the very first time they had kissed in this room, a kiss that had tasted of holy water and blood, but he had pushed her away then, too. He would always push people away, even when it destroyed his very soul to do so.

There was a creak on the floorboards behind him, and Will sighed, gripping the balcony railing so hard that his knuckles turned white. He did not want company, not now. He wanted to be alone with his brooding thoughts. The footsteps were too hesitant to be Jem's and he knew that Tessa, with all of her determined stubbornness, would not come crawling back to him so quickly. It was one of the reasons he lo—

But Will could not afford to think that way. "What are you doing here, future girl?" he asked instead, trying and failing to push Tessa out of his mind. He was, as usual, in a horrible mood, and it showed in his tone. Normally he found it amusing to terrify the poor girl who started at the smallest thing, but not now. Besides, she had no way of knowing that "future girl" had ceased to be a deliberate insult and now ventured more into the territory of almost affectionate teasing.

"Because I want to be," Abby replied, with surprising fierceness. Will was secretly impressed, but did not offer anything else. He hoped that if he was silent for long enough, she would leave.

"What are  _you_ doing here?" she continued, and Will groaned inwardly. Trust her to finally find her voice at the most inopportune moment.

"Because I want to be," he said shortly, echoing her words. Letting a bit of mockery slip into his tone, he added, "Now hurry off. It must be past your bedtime."

If he had thought that that would deter her, he was wrong. "Why are you so cruel to me—to everyone?" she suddenly burst out. "I don't understand why Jem thinks there is some…inherent goodness in you. You have been nothing but unkind to me, and yet he still thinks I should forgive you."

 _You shouldn't,_ Will wanted to say.  _Don't forgive me. I do not deserve it._ But instead he answered, "Jem does not understand me any more than you do. You can think of him as my moral compass, if it makes you feel any better." He smirked, though his heart wasn't really in it.

Abby was silent for a long moment, and Will was beginning to wonder if she had left after all, when he heard her voice again, closer to him this time. "Are there no brothels or gambling houses open this time of night?" she asked, her tone uncharacteristically bitter. He was almost surprised. "Why else would you be in the attic instead of skulking the streets like everyone seems to think you do?"

"You go on about the strangest things, and not in a good way. Has anyone ever told you that?" His voice came out sharp and pointed, a knee-jerk reaction. But he couldn't go back on it now.

"Listen, Will, I don't care if you're rude to me," Abby ventured again, and this time her voice did not waver. "I've met too many people exactly like you for words to have any real effect on me anymore. But I know that there are…others…who care deeply what you think of them, and I suggest that you stop being so unpleasant."

For a brief moment, Will was taken aback by her words, at the implication that she had been the subject of cruelty and verbal abuse before. He felt a surge of something that was almost like anger—protectiveness? But that was nonsense. He had no reason to be protective of Abby Cartwright. Instead he concentrated on the latter half of her sentence: it was obvious that Tessa had told her what had happened between them, and now she was attempting to set things right on behalf of her friend.

"Did Tessa put you up to this?" Will asked, and then realized that wasn't even a possibility. "No, she wouldn't do that," he murmured. Tessa was honorable, much more honorable than himself, and Abby had taken matters into her own hands. "Listen, future girl, being the martyr doesn't suit you. Go back to avoiding my gaze and squeaking whenever I so much as mention you. It's more amusing that way."

"For you, maybe, but not for me," Abby said darkly. "Can't you just be civil for one minute?"

This time Will's grin was real. "Such unexpected audacity," he half-teased, and then, astonishing even himself, "Why couldn't you sleep?"

He was glad Abby couldn't see his face, since he was sure his emotions were clearly displayed on it: shock that he had actually asked her a question, and concern for her well-being that he wished he didn't have.

"I was just—" She suddenly cut herself off, as if hesitating at confiding something so personal to him. He didn't blame her. "Never mind."

When Will didn't answer right away, Abby launched into an explanation anyway, and little did she know that there was a true smile on his face now, his first one in a long time. But it didn't last long, fading almost as soon as she began speaking.

"I've been having strange dreams lately. First I saw my mother—a mundane—in Idris. She looked…terrified, and was shouting my name over and over. Then I saw my father in the Silent City. He was begging one of the Silent Brothers to help him. He said he believed that a Greater Demon had placed a curse on his family. I just thought I was hallucinating at first, but now I'm wondering if I  _am_ under some sort of curse…it would make sense, and maybe it had something to do with me being sent back in time. I don't know why I would have those dreams, but they've been occurring often."

Will's insides twisted at the mention of the word  _curse_ , and the attic, which had been his only refuge, now seemed like a prison cell. "You know nothing of curses," he snapped, and it was true. She could not know of the burden that haunted him every second of every day—the burden that stopped him from showing his gratitude to Charlotte and Henry; prevented him from becoming any closer to Tessa; and that even did not allow him to betray that he did not hate Abby herself as much as she thought he did.

Will finally relaxed his grip on the railing and spun around, retreating back into the room. He could see the blue glow of Abby's witchlight in the corner and her pale dressing-gown. As he passed her, he unconsciously reached out and tugged her hair—he could not reassure her in words, could not tell her that she was just having senseless nightmares and should just ignore them—but that one gesture was all he could do to comfort her. "Good night, Abby," he said shortly.

"Wait," she said as he reached the door, and despite himself, Will paused. "How many tests have I passed?"

For a moment, he considered telling her that there had never been any tests in the first place, that he had known the way things would play out as soon as Jem had laid eyes on her for the first time; the way he sensed things about his  _parabatai_ no one, not even her, would be able to guess. He considered telling her about the way Jem's eyes lit up whenever she walked into a room, or the tenderness in his voice when he spoke of her. And he considered expressing his gratitude that she made Jem happy in a way Will had never seen him before.

But he couldn't. He mustn't. So instead Will closed his eyes and said, "All of them. Even the ones you did not know about."

Even in the dim witchlight, he could see her face light up. Before he could betray anything else, Will opened the door and walked out of the attic.

He did not even know himself where he was going as he wound through the dark halls of the Institute, but even so, he'd always had a vague destination in mind; had had one ever since he had seen Tessa for the first time.

There was no one in the corridors or the courtyard to stop him leaving—not that he would have allowed them to anyway. Will always passed Thomas's quarters with no small measure of guilt, remembering when they had been friends before Jem came to the Institute. Thomas had been the closest thing to a friend he'd had, and he often felt guilty about slowly letting that vanish. But the other boy had never seemed to mind—even so, Will had strategically placed him in Sophie's path more than once, knowing how Thomas felt about the maid. He felt another knot of guilt in his stomach as he thought of Sophie, but he was used to the regret now.

Once he came to the gate, Will reached out a hand and pushed it open, feeling the rain soak his hair and jacket. But he didn't care—while the others often complained about the terrible London weather, Will couldn't care less. The city was horrible no matter whether it was raining or sunny.

As the gate clanged shut behind him, Will paused and raised his face back up to the Institute, unsure himself what he was looking for—Tessa? Jem? But then his eyes landed on a figure with a cloud of blonde hair, standing on the attic balcony, and she raised one hand in an almost hesitant wave.

Will couldn't help it—he grinned at her, and he thought he saw her smile back. But he just as quickly caught himself, and he spun away, walking quickly down the sidewalk and hunching his shoulders from the rain. He knew exactly where he was going now, and it had been spurred in no small part by his kiss with Tessa, but also, surprisingly, his conversation with Abby.

He was going to see Magnus Bane.

* * *

_**Will's POV of his kiss with Abby (Chapter 20)** _

**W** ill was dreaming of Tessa.

By now, he'd learned to expect it; anticipate it, even. She would always be in front of him, drifting just out of reach. He would call out her name, and she would smile sweetly at him, a strand of brown hair falling coyly over her face, and beckon him over to her. He would imagine taking off her glove very slowly, exposing the soft skin of her hand, and ever so gently pressing his lips against the inside of her wrist, where her pulse beat—

And then he would waken, gasping, alone in his dark room. He was never able to get back to sleep after he dreamed of Tessa Gray. But this time was different. It took him barely half a second to remember that he was not in London, but at the York Institute, and someone else was definitely in the room with him.

It was not Jem, he knew that much, and his still-muddled mind dared to allow himself the hope that it was Tessa. Perhaps she could not sleep, or she wished to argue with him about the note he'd left in her copy of  _Vathek…_ Will would argue with her any day if it meant he got to see her grey eyes flash in the way that he so enjoyed, even if it was anger directed at him.

A figure was moving just above him in the near-darkness, and though Will still couldn't see properly—he was too tired to lean over and grab his witchlight—but it was a distinctly feminine figure with long hair. Tessa was shorter than Will remembered, but he was lying down at the wrong angle, anyway…

She was whispering something, but Will, half-mad, reached for her hand and pulled her face down to his, securing the back of her neck with his own hand before kissing her fiercely. He was so close to saying the words that burned at the back of his throat every time he saw her, but he could only manage to rasp out her name.

Tessa froze against him, and after a moment, so did Will. Her lips were not the shape he had memorized, her face smaller and her hair not as soft—

Realization dawned on him with a sickening jolt, and he shoved the girl who was most certainly  _not_ Tessa away from him, scrabbling for his witchlight. It flared up to reveal the very pale, sick-looking face of Abby Cartwright, who seemed every bit as horrified as Will was.

"By the Angel,  _Abby,"_ he moaned, disgust and disappointment coursing through him in equal measures. He felt as if he had been kissing Ella or Cecily; like she was a member of his family. The intensity of the thought vaguely surprised him, but he didn't— _couldn't_ —dwell on it just then.

"I thought you were  _Jem!"_  Abby hissed, making no effort to hide the fact she was wiping her mouth with her sleeve. "I smelled the  _yin fen_ in here."

So that was what she had been whispering—Jem's name. Will cursed himself for his stupidity. He'd been so caught up in the memory of his dream he hadn't paid attention to what she'd actually been saying. "I always bring an extra supply with me in case he runs out." He was furious, but only at himself. He had almost let Abby in far too many times. He must remedy the situation before it got even worse. "Listen, you are not to tell anybody else about this, do you hear?" He imagined the looks on Jem's and Tessa's faces if they knew what he had accidentally done, and felt ill. Jem would be heartbroken, but his understanding would make everything worse. Tessa would hide her jealousy—if she even had any—and would instead be fiercely protective of Abby.

Abby narrowed her eyes so that they were nearly slits; Will was reminded, again, inexplicably of Cecily. "Who would I tell?" she challenged. "It was an accident, anyway—"

For the first time, Will noticed how stricken she really looked, how large and round her eyes were, the way her lips were trembling…she was shaken, terrified, and he could tell that her mind was on something entirely different. He'd barely noticed that she'd excused herself quickly and nearly run out of the dining-hall at dinner; he'd been too busy concentrating on Tessa. Tessa, who would not approve of the way he was currently treating Abby. So Will took a deep breath and asked, in as civil a tone as he could manage, "Why did you run out at dinner, anyway?"

Her scowl deepened, and he was dimly taken aback at the force of her stare. She growled, "To get away from  _you,"_ and abruptly spun around, stalking out of the room.

Will, who hadn't noticed himself stand up, watched her retreating figure with something like remorse. He opened his mouth before his brain had caught up with him—which admittedly wasn't a rare situation—and blurted, "It is better for you if we are not friends, Abby."

The door closed behind her before he had even finished speaking, but somehow Will felt better, as if a crushing weight had been lifted off his chest. He slowly lowered himself back onto the bed, but this time he fell into a dreamless sleep.

* * *

_**Jem's POV of the night he spent with Abby (Chapter 23)** _

**J** em was burning.

It wasn't only the  _yin fen_ that was racing through his veins now, setting his nerves on fire—it was anger, hopelessness, and another kind of burning, a different one unlike anything he had ever experienced. His hand still stung slightly from where he had slapped Will, but he would do it all over again if he could. He had never acted in such a way before to his  _parabatai,_  and even an hour beforehand he would never have dreamed of it.

But it was not just Will. It was the culmination of everything that had been building up in the past months, even years. Jem had never lost control before; at least not like this. He was not the saint that everyone believed he was. He was only human. And humans could not be perfect.

Jem's mind was racing frenetically, switching between fury at Will and despair at himself and Abby, Abby,  _Abby_ …

He dragged a hand through his hair painfully and snatched up his violin, sweating profusely although it wasn't at all warm in his bedroom. His hands shook as he wrenched the bow across the strings, finally letting his thoughts overwhelm him. He played the way Will had looked in the drug den, his blue eyes hazy and unfocused, his black hair tousled on the pillow. He played the way Tessa had looked when Will had murmured her name, leaning against him as if he was holding her up as much as she was supporting him. And Jem played the way Abby had looked that afternoon, dressed in a robe after taking a bath…the fire flared up in him again, hotter than ever, and he gave a half-strangled cry of pain.

His grip was so tight on the violin that he barely noticed himself sink to his knees, that the melody had all but disappeared, replaced with a shrill screech. He had kissed her several times, knew what it felt like to have her body pressed against his on a bed, knew what it felt like to sleep with her next to him—but it wasn't enough. He wanted more, and he despised himself for thinking such impure thoughts. It was becoming increasingly more difficult to look Abby in the eyes, especially after he had almost walked in on her in the bath.

Jem shuddered, but it was no longer out of pain. Behind him, the door burst open, but he did not turn.  _"Jem!"_ he heard Abby shout, dimly, and Jem still did not open his eyes. Surely she must know what he had been thinking about. His embarrassment, his flushed cheeks, his pounding heart…this was his punishment, then. He was not Will. He could not think about a girl in that way and feel absolutely no guilt for it.

And then she grabbed his wrists. Jem's eyes snapped open, and for a wild second he thought that perhaps he was dreaming, and she was going to pull him close to her—

But she wasn't looking at him at all; she was grabbing for the violin, trying to wrest it out of his hands. Of course. He was a fool to have expected anything else. Jem released his grip on it, and Abby snatched it out of his hands, placing it safely out of his reach before kneeling down in front of him. He felt the anger rush back to swallow him whole, but this time he was furious with himself. "There is no point to it, Abby," he snarled; her concern for the violin would have been amusing under different circumstances. Now he felt as if the world had fallen away from under him and he was tumbling helplessly through the darkness.

"No point to what?" she asked uncertainly. Her dress was just sweeping the floor, her hands reached out to balance herself, her fingers inches from his knees. Her brown eyes were wide and alarmed, and her hair was falling out of its bun. She was so close that Jem could smell a faint scent of lemon soap, no doubt left over from her bath. He felt his jaw clench as he tried to suppress the thoughts, and his face was so warm he felt as if he was about to burst into flames.

"To anything," he snapped; he couldn't look at her. "To the violin breaking. To rescuing Will. To even taking the  _yin fen_ —I'll be dead within a year anyway." They were thoughts he had always harbored, somewhere in the back of his mind, but he had never spoken them until now to anyone.

Abby looked horrified. He hoped it was at him—he deserved it. "What? No," she said. Her hand was now so close to him that he could feel their distance like a physical ache. "What are you talking about? Of course there is! You can't leave everyone here like that, most of all Will. He needs you, Jem—"

She always spoke about the others at the Institute, about Will, about Tessa, but never about herself. Jem wondered if this was to hide her true indifference for him. Perhaps all she did was pity him because he was ill, because he was dying, and his death would not matter to her in the least. "Does he?" Jem asked, but he was not only speaking of Will. "Perhaps he is only using me as an excuse to go to those drug dens. Perhaps I should not have put so much faith in him. Perhaps I was wrong, Abby. I have spent years believing that he is good at heart, that he is just running from some terrible pain, but…perhaps I was wrong. What if he is not worth it?"

"Jem,  _no,"_  Abby said, and her voice broke slightly. She folded her hands in her lap, and it took every ounce of Jem's self-control not to reach for them. "Will cares for  _you_  more than anyone else. But it is not you he was thinking of when he went to that drug den."

Jem's fingers were digging so hard into his palms that they were beginning to bleed, but he didn't care. He wasn't sure he cared about much at all, anymore, apart from the girl sitting in front of him like some sort of angel in a feverish dream. "I  _know,_ Abby," he groaned, and the words he had been wanting to speak since she'd run into the room finally spilled out of him. He could hold back no longer. "For years, Will was the only purpose to my life. And then I met you, and I fell in love, and I thought that maybe I could find happiness in a way I had never dared to dream of. But now I look at you and I know that you do not deserve me—you deserve to go back to your own time and find a better man than me, one who is healthy and does not have a time limit on his life. Someone who is not an addict."

He expected her to breathe a sigh of relief, now that she would no longer feel as if she was obligated to keep up the pretense of loving him, but the intensity in her voice was so strong that his mouth fell open slightly. "Jem Carstairs," she said, reaching out to take his hands and hold them between both of hers. His thoughts scattered again, and the fire in his veins burned hotter than ever before. "Firstly, you are the best man I have ever met, and the best man I will  _ever_ meet. Secondly, the 'time limit' doesn't matter to me. I have a time limit too, remember? And unless I bring you back to 1978 and we find a cure there, we don't have the luxury of forever. The first moment you spoke to me was the moment I gave up any notions of ever being with anybody  _but_ you."

 _I am dreaming,_ Jem thought.  _This cannot be anything but a dream._

But when Abby leaned forward and kissed him, her scent wafting over him and he tasted her lips, Jem was forced to conclude that it was, in fact, reality. In a frenzied haze, he reached over and pulled the pins out of her hair, letting it tumble down her back. He placed one hand on the back of her head so he could draw her closer to him, the other wrapped around her waist as his fingers splayed around the curves of her body in a way that would be indecent even to Shadowhunters.

He was no longer thinking in coherent sentences, but garbled words that were a mixture of English and Mandarin—none of them were as important as her name, which he was rasping out over and over. Without taking her lips away from him, Abby moved her mouth downwards to his jaw, and the line between pleasure and pain had all but disappeared.

At some point their lips met again, and Jem knew that they had already overstepped all bounds of propriety, and that they weren't even engaged, much less married, and if they went any farther he wouldn't be able to forgive himself—

But he didn't care. Even the rational part of his mind, the one that always cautioned Will or warned him from getting too close with Abby, was curiously silent. And Jem was perfectly happy that way.

His entire body ached when Abby pulled away from him slightly, her lips swollen and red. One of the straps on her dress had slipped downwards, and Jem could not take his eyes away from her bare shoulder. She suddenly ducked her head and kissed the  _parabatai_ rune on his arm, her hair brushing against his skin, and Jem shuddered. He could not wait any longer. He had always been practical, had always been the one to hold back—but he knew that if they were separated now, he would die.

 _"Wo ai ni,"_ he murmured against her hair, and took a deep breath, inhaling her scent and memorizing the feel of her against him. He did not think he had ever been so content yet so  _alive_ at the same time. His entire body was thrumming, as if he had absorbed both of their energies into himself.

Abby raised her eyes to meet his, and she was trembling just as he was now. "Soon?" she barely whispered, and Jem felt her tense as if she expected him to send her away.

Something like panic at the thought of her leaving propelled him into action again, and it was with his unconscious mind that he growled,  _"Now,"_ and pulled her as close to him as they could possibly get.

The next second they were on the bed, Abby's hair spread across the pillows as Jem bent over her, their bodies a tangle of arms and legs. He loved her with an intensity so profound that he felt almost dizzy, and he knew that if he were to die at that very second, his life would have been complete.

She had somehow got his shirt off without him noticing, and he self-consciously stared down at himself, embarrassed that he did not look like what she probably wanted, covered with scars and his ribs prominent. But all Abby had to do was silence him with a gentle finger to his lips, telling him that his worries were not necessary, and he immediately quieted, although he was shaking so hard he would later wonder how in the name of the Angel he was ever able to unlace her dress.

It was, at first, awkward and slightly challenging and not as graceful as he might have hoped, but Jem would not have it any other way. When it was all over and they were lying in each other's arms, breathing faster than normal and trying to come back down to reality, Jem thought that both of them had been changed in a profound way, and that he would have lived his entire life over again if it meant he could experience this state of wild bliss just one more time.

* * *

_**Abby and Will discuss being half-mundane (Chapter 27/28)** _

**I** t was a cold, early-autumn night. The clouds raced each other across the silvery moon, the sky peppered with glittering stars, and a thin layer of frost covered the ground. The stifling heat of summer had long disappeared.

My boots crunched across the grass as I followed Will out of the Institute and across the courtyard. Charlotte had asked me to join him and Jem on one of their patrols, and I'd gladly obliged: I jumped at the chance to spend as much time with Jem as possible.

While my fiancé—I would never get tired of that word—was still inside, likely taking an extra dose of  _yin fen_ before tonight, I'd accompanied Will outside to wait for Jem. I was still understandably nervous around Will, although after the revelation of his curse, I knew I had no reason to be. He was a changed person—no, that wasn't entirely true. I had seen flashes of his true self before, the self he had only shown at certain times. The boy, I supposed, that Tessa had fallen in love with.

A carriage slowly rattled down the road when we reached the gate, and I caught a glimpse of a mundane mother sitting inside, the outline of a child sleeping on her lap. They were obviously nobility, judging by their large, sleek carriage and the woman's lavish dress. I felt my heart contract in a painful ache, and I was suddenly struck by a wave of homesickness. I hadn't felt anything like this in weeks, not since Jem and I had gotten engaged, and the sensation was so overwhelming that I had to lean against the iron bars of the gate to steady myself.

"Abby?" Will asked from beside me—as usual, I wasn't used to the concern in his voice. "Are you all right?"

Part of me still held back from confiding anything to him, for good reason, but I was speaking before I could stop myself. "Do you ever feel like…like you don't fully belong here?" I began. "I don't mean  _here,_  as in London, but here as in the Shadow World. Like half of your heart is warring with itself."

I expected him to smirk, but Will's eyes were very blue and very serious as he nodded. "I do understand it. Cecy— _Cecily_  has described the feeling as well." He paused. "I have always known it. We are different, Abby. We are half-mundane. We were not raised in this world. I would likely have become a Shadowhunter eventually—it only takes a tiny spark to ignite, like gunpowder—but I cannot fully ignore my mundane upbringing."

"Me neither," I sighed, thinking of Mom and the burden she'd had to bear. "I suppose the only thing I can do now is know that I am helping to save that world."

"And you have," Will said quietly. "We both have." I looked at him again, and a current of understanding passed between us. It was something that only the two of us would be able to share, and I wondered if he had realized we were more alike than he had thought when he'd read my father's journal.

"You know," I remarked after a moment, trying to lighten the atmosphere, "You're better than I thought you were, Will Herondale."

He grinned, and I was relieved to see there was only affection in it now, teasing banter, as if I was a sister or a close friend. "You are not so bad yourself, Abby Cartwright," he mocked, and we both laughed.

* * *

_**Abby shows Jem her engagement dress (Chapter 27/28)** _

**"W** hat do you think, Sophie?" I asked, staring dubiously at my reflection as I pirouetted slowly in front of the mirror. "Is it too scandalous?"

"Of course not, Miss Abby," Sophie was quick to reassure me, fastening one last pin into my hair. "You look beautiful. Master Jem will surely not be able to take his eyes off you."

I smiled gratefully at her, but my insides were still knotted up with worry. My engagement party was tomorrow, and I wanted everything to be perfect—not for myself, but for Jem. I had spent the day shopping with Tessa and Cecily, searching for the dress I would wear. After hours of agonizing over the choices—to the point where Cecily was becoming visibly agitated—I had finally chosen a crimson taffeta gown with white lace trim that brought in my waist and accentuated my chest. As soon as we'd returned to the Institute, I'd asked Sophie to assist me in trying it on—although I was becoming more adept at tying knots and undoing laces, the thing very nearly took three people to navigate. "At least Jem will have trouble figuring out where to start," Cecily had told me on the carriage ride home, completely unabashed. Tessa had looked appropriately scandalized but slightly amused at her words, and I'd smiled and blushed, playing coy—I wasn't certain how to tell the other girls that I no longer needed to be protective of my virtue, as Jem had already taken it the previous month.

After Sophie had helped me into the dastardly thing, she had pulled my hair up into a sweeping bun and fastened it with an army of pins. The dress had a low neckline that accentuated the jade pendant glittering on my throat, and Sophie had found a pair of matching emerald earrings that I suspected were another one of Jessamine's castoffs. After applying blush to my cheeks and a hint of red lipstick to match the dress, I was finally freed. The girl in the mirror stared nervously back at me, brown eyes doe-like and wide. I was still recognizable, but it was so far out of my comfort zone that I had half a mind to ask Sophie to just put me in one of my usual dresses instead.

I took a deep breath—which was more difficult than it seemed in the tight-fitting fabric—and turned back to Sophie, who was smiling at me. I knew that she had wanted to spend the evening with Gideon, and I suddenly felt ashamed for wasting her time, though she was far too polite to betray even the slightest hint of annoyance. "Thank you, Soph," I sighed. "As usual, you are the only one who can make me look tolerable."

Her lovely smile disappeared and her brows creased together worriedly. "Do you not like the dress?" she asked. "I can have Mrs Branwell return it—"

"No, it's fine," I said, smoothing down a wrinkle on the shoulder. "I'm just…not used to something so…decadent. I'm wondering if I made the right choice—if Jem will like it."

"But do  _you_ like it, Miss Abby?"

"Yes," I admitted. "But Jem—"

"Then Master Jem will like it as well," Sophie said firmly. "I am sure of that."

I let out a breath I hadn't realized I'd been holding and smiled at her. "You're right," I answered. "I just…want everything to be perfect."

Neither of us voiced the real reason why I wanted the entire affair to be molded to Jem's tastes: with his life drastically shortened, I was determined to make every memory of his one to be cherished. Some part of me knew that Sophie was right, that as long as I was happy then Jem would be happy, but to do so would feel selfish. I wanted every decision to be fully agreed upon by both of us.

"Do you…do you think I should show him?" I asked. "It's just the dress for the engagement party, after all, not the wedding dress…"

"The decision is up to you, Miss Abby," Sophie said. I looked at myself one more time and then nodded.

"I think I will," I told her. "Better he's spoiled now lest it be an unpleasant surprise for him tomorrow."

She laughed and shook her head in mild amusement. "You are just as dramatic as Mr Herondale sometimes. I take it you do not need my assistance any longer?"

"Not for a while," I told her, and, with an agreeable nod Sophie left the room, presumably to find Gideon. I tugged absent-mindedly on my earrings as I listened to the sweet strings of the violin being played in Jem's room. He played almost every evening now, and I would often sit on his bed and watch him, admiring the way his long fingers moved deftly across the instrument, wringing beautiful notes from the strings. Occasionally my mind wandered into more indecent territory such as remembering what those hands felt like on me—I always worried that my blush would give me away.

Now, though, I could feel myself blushing even before I reached his room. The corridor was dark and quiet, the witchlights burning low in their grates. Tessa's door was closed, no light emanating from the crack beneath it—not surprising; she was likely in the library with Will. Distant chatter and the clinking of wine glasses were audible from downstairs; a good sign. Hopefully the rest of the Institute was having too much fun merrymaking to bother about me. It was nights like these that I felt the most comfortable, when everyone had gone their separate ways but were content with each other. I knew that I would be welcome if I chose to join the group downstairs, or even if I decided to go up to the library. But there was only one place I wished to be at the moment.

Jem had told me many times that I didn't need to knock before entering his bedroom, but the habit was so ingrained in me that I never thought twice about it. Not wanting to disturb him, I gently rapped my fingers against the wood. "Come in," he called without ceasing his playing.

I opened the door a crack, but before I could step inside a fluffy grey shape wormed its way through the opening and stopped in front of me. A pair of malevolent yellow eyes stared up at me as Church's tail slowly swished back and forth. He appeared to have become more tolerant of me since the engagement—funnily enough—but Jem was still the only person he allowed near him for longer than a minute. I bent down, extending my hand towards him. Luckily, Church didn't seem to be in a biting mood tonight: he allowed me to stroke him briefly before skulking off in the direction of the staircase, probably to break up the party. If I heard annoyed shouts from downstairs, I would know what had happened.

I slipped into Jem's room as quietly as I could and gently shut the door behind me, an immediate calm settling over me as my eyes landed on him. Suddenly my worry over the dress seemed insignificant. I hadn't seen him all day; he and Will had spent it on the other side of London chasing down a Shax demon that had been evading capture for weeks.

His back was to me, his silvery hair the same color as the moonlight pouring in through his open window. The cool night air fluttered the curtains and ruffled my hair; the entire scene was utterly peaceful.

The music didn't cease as Jem turned his head to see who had come in—likely wondering why no one had spoken yet—and the note he had been playing suddenly trailed off, unfinished, into the breeze. His mouth opened slightly in shock and his eyes were so wide that it was almost comical. He didn't speak for so long that I began to fear that he was upset, and I began babbling.

"It's the dress for our engagement party," I blurted out. "I spent all day looking at dresses and picked this one because I know that red is your favorite color, but if you don't like it—"

"Shhh, shhh, Abby," he said, and I let my words trail off into the air just like his music. He stood up and placed his violin and bow on the bed without taking his eyes off me and walked toward me, his expression akin to that of someone who had just been hit in the face. He looked positively stunned.  _"Nǐ hěn piào liǎng_ ," he whispered, almost reverently, when he reached me. A stray curl had slipped out of its pin, and he reached out a hand to carefully tuck it back behind my ear. My skin tingled pleasantly at his touch.

"What does that mean?" I asked, embarrassed.

His silver eyes were very, very soft as he answered, "It means that you are beautiful. The most beautiful woman I have ever seen."

My face, I was sure, was bright pink. "So I guess that means you like it, then?"

In response, he leaned forward and gently kissed the side of my mouth, murmuring something in Mandarin against my skin. An involuntary shiver escaped me at our close proximity, and my arms reached up to wrap themselves around his neck as if of their own accord. Jem buried his head in my shoulder; I could feel his nose pressing into my collarbone, and very softly, I felt his lips brush against the line of my throat and up to my jawline as he raised his head. His other hand cupped my chin, his touch warm and reassuring.

I closed my eyes as he kissed every part of my face—my ears, my nose, my eyelids—before finally capturing my mouth with his own. I threw myself eagerly into the kiss—so eagerly, in fact, that Jem stumbled backward onto the bed, his hands quickly grabbing my waist so he could steady me on his lap. "Oops," I breathed, reluctantly breaking the kiss and grinning sheepishly down at him. "Sorry."

He didn't seem to mind; a small smile curved his lips as he stroked my face, his fingers trailing down my cheek and his eyes moving up and down my body. I noticed that they lingered on my chest longer than strictly necessary. "I thought about you all day,  _qīn'ài de,"_ he said hoarsely. "Will can attest to that. I do believe he was ready to throw me into the Thames by the end of it."

"Well, it wouldn't be the first time," I teased. Jem laughed quietly and drew me toward him again, looking strangely hesitant. I kissed him, long and languorous, as his fingers skimmed along the length of my dress. I drew away feeling breathless, my head spinning. I knew that he liked my hair undone, so I reached up and pulled the pins out of my hair, feeling it tumble down over my bare shoulders. I could have sworn I saw his eyes darken as he reached up to run his fingers through the curls, teasing out the knots, tucking it behind my ears when it fell over my face as I looked down at him.

He was wearing a crisp white shirt and black trousers; his shirt was already unbuttoned, as if he had been in the middle of undressing when he had picked up his violin. I pushed the fabric aside and ran my hands over his bare chest—feeling sharp ribs under my fingertips, tracing the runes on his skin.

Jem's breath hitched, his heart stuttering under my hand. Suddenly he was lying on the bed with me on top of him, my hair falling down over my face and creating a curtain between us. I ducked my head to press my lips to his, and he welcomed the kiss eagerly. When I opened his lips to explore the inside of his mouth with my tongue, I felt him gasp and his hands tightened on my waist, pulling me as close as I could get to him with our clothes in the way.

I broke the kiss sooner than either of us would have liked, holding myself up with my hands digging into the blankets on either side of his head. "This dress," I muttered, balancing precariously on one arm while I hitched the train up with the other, "is getting in the way."

I waited for him to sit up, to apologize for overstepping the bounds of propriety, but he didn't. Instead Jem stared up at me, his eyes roving my face as if he was a blind man seeing for the first time. He visibly swallowed, and his voice was husky when he replied, "Is that why you chose it?"

I smiled and shook my head as my hands roved lower, skimming the waistband of his trousers. I felt him shudder under me, and his hands caught in my hair.  _"Abby—"_ he gasped, his breathing coming faster and louder. I knew that this was a dangerous road we were hurtling down—again—but I could already tell that it was too late. A now-familiar heat was beginning to pool in my abdomen, spreading throughout my entire body.

Slowly, I took his hand and placed it on the laces that crossed my chest, hooking his fingers around them. "Jem…" I began slowly. "If you want to stop now…"

"No," he gasped; he was panting as if he had just run a marathon. "Abby— _please—"_

By the Angel, he was coming undone even faster than I was. Then again, I knew exactly what he liked, and was using it to my full advantage. "Are you sure?" I asked, threading the fingers of his other hand through my own. I couldn't be vindictive for too long—my guilt always set in at the worst possible moments.

He nodded; I could see a single drop of sweat on his temple. "Yes," he told me, and this time his voice was sure and strong. My heart kicked into overdrive, and I silently brought our lips together again.

But his kisses were no longer steady and unhurried; now they were greedy and demanding, only bringing his face away from mine to give me air before his mouth came crashing down onto me again. With a surprising strength, he flipped us over so that I was the one lying on the bed and staring up at him. Without taking his lips away from my skin for a second, Jem's hands worked at the laces holding my dress together, and I could feel it loosen inch by inch. He was just as gentle as Sophie, but much quicker: the knots came undone in less than half the time it had taken her to tie them. I ran my hands through his silvery hair, my back arching up toward him when I felt his hand on my inner thigh. I turned my head to the side, a moan escaping my lips, and it was then that I spotted his violin, still perched on the edge of the bed where he had set it.

"Jem, stop," I managed to gasp, and he did, immediately, balancing himself above me so that I felt none of his weight. His eyes, which had been heavy-lidded just moments before, were suddenly alert and wary.

"What is it, Abby?" he asked, his voice holding an undercurrent of worry. "Are you hurt?"

"No, not at all," I was quick to reassure him. "But your violin—"

He followed my gaze until he realized what I was looking at, and understanding dawned in his eyes. "It is a large bed," Jem murmured hoarsely. I laughed, breathless, just as the last remaining knot came loose.

The dress fell away from me, leaving me in only my corset and stockings. I gripped Jem's shoulders and arched my back up even more, wrapping my legs tightly around his waist, so that he could undo the strings on the corset. I kissed him again once more, throwing my entire being into it, and he groaned against my mouth. His trousers were much simpler to undo than my dress had been, and when Jem kicked them off impatiently, pulling my stockings down as well, we were finally naked both physically and emotionally.

"Jem—" I gasped as he kissed me, rough and hard, his hands running up and down my back. I prayed that this time wouldn't be as awkward as the first time we had made love, when neither of us had known exactly what to do. But even so, I could already tell that this would be different: there had been no awkward fumbling, no murmured apologies. Our instincts had finally taken over, and my hands gripped the blankets under me tightly as Jem's fingers closed over my own—

"Miss Abby?"

Sophie's voice was akin to an icy bucket of water being poured over me. Jem and I both froze, our breathing loud and our bodies slick with sweat. After another agonizing moment, I distantly heard the door of my room being opened. In any second she would come to check Jem's room.

"Jem, I'm sorry," I said as he rolled away from me, allowing me to sit up and gather my discarded clothing. "I didn't know Sophie would be back so soon—"

"Abby, please do not apologize," he said as I shamefacedly handed him his shirt and trousers. "It is nobody's fault." He gave a sheepish smile. "I suppose divine intervention is telling us that we must wait until our wedding night."

 _Damn divine intervention,_ I thought, but didn't voice my opinion aloud. I was fairly certain we were both thinking along the same lines, at any rate. And we had been so close…

We dressed in slightly abashed silence—I was only able to tie the most basic knots at the front; Sophie would be able to tell that it had been removed instantly. Jem, for his part, didn't look much less guilty: his hair was an absolute mess and his shirt was still undone. I paused as I gathered my stockings, straightening up and kissing him softly one more time. I felt him tense at my touch, and when I stepped back his face was red; it was impossible to deny that he very much wanted to finish what we had started. I had a sudden, childish urge to giggle.

"I do believe I'll have to explain to Sophie how the dress came off in the first place," I laughed, and then grinned at Jem's disheveled frame before looking down at my new dress, which didn't look so new anymore. "If she hasn't already guessed, that is."

* * *

_**Brother Zachariah and Will talk about Abby (1879)** _

**"T** essa,  _cariad,_  could you ask Bridget to call for Brother Zachariah?" Will asked through gritted teeth. He stumbled through the doorway of their bedroom, clutching his left arm. A long gash ran down the length of his forearm, dripping with blood. "I am grievously injured—I fear it shall be amputated if it is not healed soon."

His new wife stood up from where she had been reading by the window and gave him a dubious look. "It looks like a painful but shallow wound," she told him. There was a hint of worry in Tessa's eyes, but the corners of her mouth upturned slightly. "Have you tried an  _iratze_? Surely Gideon or Gabriel could have helped—"

"I was determined to brave through the agony," Will said, sitting down on their bed and attempting to look as pathetic as possible. "As the newly appointed head of the London Institute, I must set a stalwart example for all other Shadowhunters, unyielding in the face of grave danger."

"I see," Tessa answered dryly, her lips now noticeably twitching in amusement. "I shall pass on that message to the Lightwoods, then."

Will grinned almost sheepishly and gave her a wink that should not have been as cheerful as it was, considering his current injury. "Thank you, love. I shall have to find some way to repay you."

A light blush covered Tessa's cheeks as she recognized his suggestive tone; the young couple had recently returned from their honeymoon and "couldn't keep their hands off each other", as Cecily had brazenly described it. Still, Tessa's modesty had not disappeared so easily. "I am sure you will think of something appropriate," she replied, somewhat breathlessly. Will gave her another rogue smirk, and she left the room before she could become even more undone.

Tessa was right: his wound was superficial, and though Will would never admit it, he was often more careless when he went out on patrol than usual, in hopes that it would lead to him requiring medical assistance from the Silent Brothers—from Zachariah. The last time he'd seen his former  _parabatai_ had been the previous month at his and Tessa's wedding, and he jumped at any chance for them to interact, no matter how small.

The gash was now beginning to bleed onto the floor, and Will impatiently wiped it away with his boot, imagining how he could later make it up to Tessa. He was blissfully happy, newly married and the new Head of the Institute. He was happier than he'd ever been in his life…save for Jem. The thought of his best friend trapped in the depths of the Silent City was a burden to bear at the best of times, and unbearable at the worst. Will had lost his  _parabatai,_ but Jem had lost everything.

There was one topic that he had never spoken about with Zachariah, and that was Abigail Cartwright, Jem's ex-fiancée and a one-time resident of the Institute. Will and Tessa spoke of Abby often with fondness and love, but never with Jem present. Will did not know if he wished to forget about her, or mourn her privately, or some combination of the two. It had been nearly a year since Abby had returned back to her own time, to 1978, and Will had never broached the topic with Brother Zachariah aside from a brief conversation in the training-room shortly after Jem's transformation. The subject of Abby, Will decided, was an intensely personal one, not just to Jem but to all three of them—but even so, there had always been something he'd wanted to tell him, something he'd confided in Tessa but never to Zachariah…

Not ten minutes after she'd left, Will heard Tessa's familiar, light footsteps coming down the corridor, but he knew that she wasn't alone. He sat up straighter, the pain in his arm now all but gone as she emerged back into the room, this time followed by a tall, parchment-robed figure. Jem lowered his hood when he saw Will, his hands still unlined and delicate. His hair had almost completely returned to an inky black shade, and thin blue veins were prominent against his closed eyelids. Will felt a rush of joy at seeing Jem again.

Tessa smiled brightly at both of them, touching Jem's shoulder in a silent gesture of affection, before retreating out of the room to give them their privacy, quietly closing the door behind her. As soon as she was gone, Will wordlessly held out his injured arm to Jem, giving him the most pitiful look he could muster. Jem silently ghosted toward him, and his mental voice was almost amused as he remarked,  _Have you forgotten how to draw an iratze already, Will?_

Will pretended to scowl at him. "I am in a considerable amount of pain, James. I consider myself lucky that I was able to stumble back to the Institute without sustaining any more wounds."

 _It is certainly a miracle,_  Jem agreed, lightly teasing as usual—Will was eternally grateful that being a Silent Brother had not taken that part away from him, at least—and gently took Will's arm in his hands, drawing runes on it with a calm steadiness that was unique to him alone. The gash immediately began to close over, leaving only pink flesh behind, but Will was not looking at his skin; he was instead looking at Jem's hands, how they must long for the violin after so many dark months without it. Not seeing the Carstairs ring on his finger was strange somehow; odd—as if Jem's very identity had vanished. But of course, Will thought, Jem had given it to Abby for their engagement.

"Does she still have your ring?" asked Will; he could no longer contain his curiosity. He was scrambling to find as many remnants of the old Jem as possible: Zachariah had been strangely quiet. When the Silent Brother straightened up and took a step away from Will, he quickly added, "Abby."

Jem gave an almost imperceptible jerk and folded his hands together, as if in response to some nervous impulse.  _Yes._

"You never talk about her," Will said; though there was no visible expression on Jem's face, his sudden agony was obvious. "But I know you still love her."

 _I do,_  Jem agreed, and now his voice held more than a hint of longing, some human emotion coloring his tone.  _And I always shall. Will, please do not think I begrudge you and Tessa the happiness that both of you deserve. It gives me no greater pleasure than to see the two of you happy._

"Jem, that isn't it," Will argued. "I would never think that you are bitter. There's something else—something about Abby. Well, her father, to be more precise…"

Jem was now alert, his body tensed.  _What is it?_  he asked.

"You must remember Jonathan Cartwright's journal," Will began. When Jem nodded, he continued, "I…read it one time, when Abby was not present. She walked in on me and was furious, of course, but it was too late. I am not proud of it," he added quickly, anticipating a stern lecture from Jem, but the Silent Brother did not interrupt. "Jonathan mentioned Brother Zachariah several times. He said that he— _you_ —were the only one he trusted to contact his family and save him. I did not think much of it at the time, of course, but later on Abby confided in me that she'd had a dream of her father kneeling at your feet, begging for help."

There was a very long silence; Will waited anxiously for Jem's reaction. He bowed his head, his shoulders hunched, so Will couldn't see his face.  _Thank you for telling me that, Will,_  he answered, and there was true pain in his voice now. He reached up to pull his hood back over his head, hiding his face from view, and Will could have sworn that Jem's face was wet. But that was impossible. Silent Brothers could not cry—could they? Will stood up in alarm, but when Jem turned back to him it was gone. Perhaps it had been merely a trick of the light…

 _I expect I shall see you soon, brother,_  Zachariah said, abruptly changing the topic. He did not wish to speak of Abby anymore, Will knew, and he respected Jem's choice. He felt relieved that he'd told the truth; it had been hanging heavy over him for months.  _I can never properly thank you and Tessa. If it were not for both of you—and the memory of Abby—I fear I would lose myself to the darkness._

Will, for all of his confident words and bravado, did not know what the most appropriate response should be. Tessa would, but she was not here, and besides, changed though he might be, Jem was still his  _parabatai._

"You will see her again," Will called after Jem, though he could promise nothing of the sort.

Jem paused in the doorway, and turned his head toward Will once more.  _That is what I am hoping for,_  he said, and disappeared in a swirl of robes.

* * *

_**James and Lucie learn about Abby (1901)** _

**"P** apa, who is Abigail?"

The question burst forth from Lucie Herondale's lips out of nowhere at the dinner table. She looked the picture of childish curiosity, her thick brown hair pulled back in plaits and her blue eyes wide and pleading. The stubborn set of her jaw, so like her father's, was a telltale sign that she had been wanting to ask the question for a very long time.

Will put down his fork and gazed across the table at Tessa, who met his gaze steadily. She gave a slight nod, indicating that he should tell Lucie the truth—or as much of it as he could. This gesture was not missed by James, whose golden eyes unwittingly lit up as he tried not to betray his interest in the subject. Since turning fifteen, he had adopted the rebellious, aloof persona that was the hallmark of so many teenage boys.

"You named me after her and I want to know who she is," Lucie continued, unwilling to let the subject drop. "And don't say I'm too young to hear the story! Ten is plenty old enough to hear a lot of things."

Will sighed and leaned forward, appearing to choose his words carefully before he spoke. "Abby was…a very dear friend of your mother and I."

"And Zachariah," Tessa added firmly.

"And him," amended Will, his eyes taking on the slightly lost look as they always did whenever his former  _parabatai_  was mentioned.

"Uncle Jem? How did he know her?" James spoke up, visibly eager at last. He was always curious to hear details on the mysterious Silent Brother he was named after.

Another long look was shared between the elder Herondales, and finally Will said, "They were engaged once."

This declaration was met with visible shock from both children, who found it difficult to think of Brother Zachariah as anything but a parchment-robed, unnaturally wise figure.

"But Silent Brothers can't fall in love!" Lucie insisted.

James rolled his eyes. "This was back when he was a Shadowhunter, Luce. Don't you  _listen?"_

She huffed and stuck her tongue out at him, slouching back in her chair and glaring. Tessa decided to intervene before it could turn into a full-scale war.

"Abby Cartwright was an American Shadowhunter who lived here at the London Institute for several months," Tessa explained. She was not lying to them, but neither was she telling them the entire truth: that could wait until both of them were older. "Like your father, she was half-mundane, but knew almost nothing about this world. She arrived here mere weeks before myself. We were all very close at one time, but she…is no longer with us." It was, at least, the truth.

"And Uncle Jem loved her?" Lucie asked, eager to hear about romance. James went back to his food, bored again as he always was whenever the subject of love came up.

"Yes, he did," Tessa said quietly. "More than anyone. I have never known a couple who loved each other as fiercely as Jem and Abby did."

"Except for one," Will said, and grinned wickedly at his wife. Tessa smiled at him, a blush covering her pale skin, and for a moment the two of them were in an entirely different place, lost in the ghosts of the past…

…At least until Lucie scrunched up her nose in disgust and James mimed choking on his dinner. Any indication of romance, even a simple peck on the cheek, between their parents was strictly forbidden. The atmosphere turned light-hearted again, and a slightly flustered Tessa tucked an escaped curl behind her ear and reached out to stroke her daughter's hair. "Abby was an extraordinarily kind-hearted girl and a brilliant Shadowhunter. I am honored to call her one of my dearest friends, and I hope you shall be honoured to bear her name."

Lucie nodded, a bit in awe, and felt a newfound rush of pride at her name. "Lucie Abigail Herondale," she said aloud, and smiled. "I like it."

* * *

_**Lucie and Brother Zachariah talk (1907)** _

**L** ucie sat cross-legged in a shadowy alcove at the very back of the London Institute's grand library, chewing absent-mindedly on the tip of a fountain pen and balancing a stack of blank paper in her lap. This was where she always came to write when she wanted uninterrupted peace and quiet. Of course, there had been that one occasion where her parents had also been in the library without knowing she was there and wanting some privacy of their own…

Lucie cringed at the memory and quickly looked down at her paper, frowning at it intently as if she expected words to magically appear on the page. She had been looking forward to getting away from her chores and duties all day, and once she had finally managed to steal away from everyone else she realized that she had neglected to think about what exactly she would write. She hadn't been feeling particularly inspired lately, and the view of a towering bookshelf in front of her was hardly helpful. The cover of  _Great Expectations_  stood proudly in the middle of her field of vision, as if it was taunting her for her current lack of a muse.

Frustrated, Lucie leaned her head back against the cool window, feeling condensation from that morning's rain drip down into her hair and staring up at the steely grey sky. She'd wanted to go riding around London for ages, but Cordelia was away visiting her mother in Iran and James was already out with Matthew. Lucie sighed, throwing her arm over her forehead dramatically. Surely there must be  _something_  to write about…

Distantly, she heard the library doors open, and she groaned, quickly folding up the paper and tucking her pen behind her ear. It looked as if there would be no stroke of inspiration for her today.

As a child, Lucie had eavesdropped on almost every conversation imaginable—from Clave meetings to arguments. As a result, she had known much more about subjects she shouldn't have at a young age, and she was of the firm opinion that any sort of knowledge could prove very useful to her in the future. So instead of revealing herself, she darted forward and grabbed the first book she saw—an old, fading copy of the  _Shadowhunter's Codex_ —and flipped it open at random, pretending to be utterly lost to the world.

"…haven't seen you in so long, Jem!" her mother was exclaiming. She sounded positively delighted. "How have you been?"

 _Quite the same._ The voice of Brother Zachariah floated into Lucie's mind and she inwardly groaned; it would be impossible to hide herself now.  _How have you been, Tessa? How is Will?_

"We are both doing quite well," Tessa said as their voices floated closer to Lucie. She pressed herself further into the alcove, though she knew it wouldn't do her any good. "If you don't mind waiting here, I will fetch him."

 _Of course not._ Zachariah sounded faintly amused; Lucie imagined any change of surroundings was pleasant for him. Even with the Herondales calling on him every chance they could, he still spent most of his time in the Silent City. Perhaps that could be a good premise for a story…she gnawed at her pen again, thinking…

 _Lucie,_ he greeted her, appearing like a ghost from between two rows of shelves, and Lucie was jerked out of her thoughts, feeling her cheeks flush pink. When she'd been younger, she had gone through a brief but embarrassing phase where she had fancied Zachariah in the way many young, inexperienced girls admired their teachers. Although she knew that Zachariah could and would never reciprocate her feelings, she had idly daydreamed about freeing Jem from his fate of being a Silent Brother. Of course, even that wouldn't help; according to her parents, he was still wholly dedicated to his ex-fiancée, Abigail Cartwright, a girl whom Lucie was also partly named after. She and James had both grown up under the impression that Abby was dead, but a conversation with her aunt Cecily one evening after too much wine had resulted in the confession that the truth was far stranger than even Lucie could have imagined.

At any rate, Zachariah had never mentioned Lucie's short-lived infatuation with him—if he had ever known about it at all—a fact that she was forever grateful for. "Hullo, Uncle Jem," she said resignedly, using James's childhood name for him. "I cannot put anything past you, can I?"

 _Tessa told me that she believed you were in here,_ Zachariah replied, the amusement still not quite gone from his tone.  _I thought it quite a logical conclusion._

Lucie stifled a sigh; of course her mother would have known where she'd disappeared to so quickly after lunch. "I just, er, wanted to read the  _Codex_ ," she said lamely, glancing back down at the page. Someone had made notes in the margins and folded back the edges of several pages to bookmark them. Lucie flipped to the front of the book and started when she read  _Abby Cartwright – 1878_ under the list of Shadowhunters who had previously owned it. The other girl's handwriting was nearly as poor as her own, a fact that made Lucie chuckle under her breath.

Then she looked up at Zachariah, suddenly struck with curiosity about his relationship with Abby. His hood was down, revealing his once-handsome face, high cheekbones marked with runes and his eyes closed but not stitched. "It was Abigail Cartwright's," she told him, placing it on the empty spot beside her. "At least it says it was. Is this her writing?"

Zachariah drifted forward to look at the book, reaching out one long finger to gently trace Abby's signature.  _Yes, it was,_ he said, turning over the page to read the notes she'd written throughout.  _I did not know this still existed._

There was silence for a moment as he examined the book, his head bent and his hair falling over his forehead. Lucie was bursting to ask him a thousand questions, but she managed to keep her mouth shut until he stopped short on one particular note. There was a strange exclamation in her mind, like an intake of breath, and unable to contain herself any longer, she leaned forward to read it as well:

 _You must save me, Jem. This is the worst Clave meeting I've ever been to,_ Abby had written, underlining the word "worst" several times vehemently.

 _This is the_ _only_ _Clave meeting you've ever been to,_ someone else had written just below that, someone with more precise strokes and a lighter pressure. Brother Zachariah's writing, when he had still been Jem.

_Yes, and I shall hopefully not be attending another one after this. Where is Will? Charlotte wanted him to be here._

_Skulking about the Institute, most likely. Last I saw he was going up to the attic._

_Oh, dear. I saw Tessa going up to the attic too. I don't suppose they're chaperoned?_ Lucie had the strong feeling the girl had been smirking.

 _I don't suppose so,_ Jem replied.  _Neither are we, for that matter._

 _Thank the Angel,_ Abby had written, and there the conversation ended. Lucie stole a glance at Zachariah, whose hand was spread over his mouth as if he was suppressing some strong emotion. It was a remarkably human gesture.

"Keep the  _Codex,_ " Lucie urged, pushing it toward him. After another long moment, Zachariah looked up at her.

 _I should not,_ he said.  _It belongs here, in the Institute._

"But it was Abby's," she replied, and with her writer's brain finally catching up with her, she added, "And Abby belongs with you."

Zachariah took his hand away from his mouth, and Lucie could have sworn she saw it open slightly in astonishment, but before she could say anything else the doors to the library opened again and this time she heard her father calling for Zachariah.

Before Will and Tessa reached them, Zachariah put a hand on Lucie's shoulder.  _Thank you, Lucie,_ he told her, his mental voice now soft. She smiled sadly at him, imagining the crushing loneliness he must feel when he was trapped in the depths of the City of Bones with no light reaching him. Maybe one day he would read Abby's words and they would help him brave the darkness.

As she watched Zachariah turn away, holding Abby's  _Codex_ against his heart, Lucie finally knew what to write.

* * *

_**Abby visits Jonathan's grave (1975)** _

**I**  wove slowly through the cemetery at the top of the hill, taking great care to sidestep the headstones as I passed them. My mother had once told me that it was bad luck if you walked on the grass under which the bodies were buried.

It was a beautiful spring day: the flowers were in full bloom and the grass was a bright, lush green. A soft breeze blew through the trees that surrounded the graveyard, and I could still taste the moisture from a recent rainstorm on my tongue. The sparkling blue water of the bay was just visible beyond the downtown skyline, with the arches of the Golden Gate Bridge towering above the rooftops. I couldn't wait to get home, eat some of the leftover blueberry pie Mom had made the previous night, and flop down in front of the television to watch an episode of  _All in the Family._

I finally reached the row I was looking for and dashed down to the very end, where a simple black stone rose from the wet earth, standing a few feet apart from the rest. Mom had spent nearly all of her savings to buy this headstone.

I sat down cross-legged in front of the gravestone, dropping my backpack next to me. I had read the inscription so many times that I could see it just as clearly in my mind's eye:

_Jonathan Cartwright, 1943-1962._

_Love is as strong as death._

The wind blowing in from the bay gently ruffled my hair, and a streetcar rattled noisily by on the road outside as I began to speak quietly. "Hi, Dad. I…I'm beginning to feel a bit stupid for doing this now—talking to you, I mean—but it's the only way I can feel any sort of connection with you." I exhaled noisily, running my tongue along the inside of my cheek. "Today is my thirteenth birthday. I'm a teenager now, but I don't feel any different."

Talking to his grave was a ritual I had been doing for as long as I could remember. Dad had been killed when I was two weeks old, and as a child I had chattered on about everything and anything, as if the tombstone could hear me. Now, though, the awkwardness was stifling my speech. I felt a stab of guilt for not at least bringing flowers.

I knew that my mother often did the same thing—coming here for some peace and quiet—although I almost never accompanied her. She didn't like talking about Dad's life, and I couldn't really blame her.

I was about to speak again, to tell him that my birthday so far had been terrible and I'd woken up to Mom crying—she always cried on certain days, like my birthday, the day that Dad had died, and her wedding anniversary—but my thoughts were scattered by the loud whooping of male voices very close by.

"Hey! Abby!" one of them called out. My heart dropped down into my stomach and I quickly ducked, but it was too late. Two boys I vaguely recognized from school—I thought their names were Damian and Kieran—were walking towards me, enormous smirks on their faces. I had never spoken to them before, and didn't wish to start now.

"Who were you  _talking_ to?" Damian jeered. "A ghost?" He came up behind me while Kieran stood on my other side, blocking my escape. "Jonathan Cartwright," he read aloud. "Aw, talking to Daddy?"

"Leave me alone!" I protested in a small, pitiful voice.

But they only laughed louder. Their faces seemed to warp and twist into some hideous monster—glowing red eyes and slimy skin. Like they weren't even human at all.

"Come and save me, Daddy!" Kieran yelled. "Help me!" His voice sounded lower than before; now it was an almost inhuman growl. And then Damian picked up a rock and tossed it at me. I dove out of the way and it ricocheted off the grave, leaving a dent in the stone.

Out of the corner of my eye, I could have sworn they both melted into another shape entirely, extra arms growing out of their skin and eyes popping out over their bodies.

Demons.

 _It's not real,_ I tried to tell myself.  _It's just my imagination._ But I knew I was lying to myself.

I didn't want this. I had never signed up for this. I had made it quite clear that I wanted a normal life, with no supernatural elements involved. Not like Dad. That has been his downfall.

I scrambled to my feet and pushed past them; Kieran held out his arm to stop me, but with some hidden reserve of strength I didn't even know I had, I shoved him aside and he staggered backwards. I tore out of the cemetery, my backpack banging against my side and adrenaline rushing through my veins. I didn't look back until I was safely across the street.

They were gone.

Nearly tripping over my own feet in my rush to get home, I hurried down the sidewalk, keeping my head down in case I saw any more of those terrifying faces. I didn't want anything to do with the Shadow World.

When I burst into the kitchen, eyes wide, my mother glanced up from where she had been baking a cake. "Did something happen, Abby?" she asked warmly, though not without a hint of concern. "You look very pale."

For a moment, I considered telling her what had happened, just to get it off my chest, but then I imagined her face if I told her that I had nearly been caught by two demons. She had spent the past thirteen years keeping me hidden from that world, and I didn't want to worry her now.

So I forced a smile on my face and sat down at the table, deliberately facing away from the window. "No, Mom. Everything's fine."

But I knew very well that it wasn't.

* * *

_**Brother Zachariah and Tessa talk (1978)** _

**I** t was an unusually warm day for the season; a soft breeze blew through Tessa's hair as she leaned against the railing of Blackfriars Bridge, waiting for Jem. This meeting would be different from the rest; she could feel it. Jem had waited for this year to arrive for a century; not for the first time, she wondered how keenly Silent Brothers could  _feel_ , even one as human as Jem.

_Tessa._

As usual, Jem's voice touched her mind before she could see him. She waited patiently for him to emerge out of the bustling crowd, as still and silent as a ghost. He was nothing if not punctual—for the past one hundred years, he had always appeared exactly on the stroke of the hour like clockwork.  _Are you not cold?_

She looked down at herself; she was dressed casually, wearing a pair of jeans that flared out at the ankle she had gotten from a sale in New York the previous month, paired with a light blue cardigan. Her hair was pulled up in a ponytail and she wore a pair of delicate gold earrings that had been a Christmas present many years ago.

"I'm fine," she reassured him, smiling gently. "It's surprisingly warm." Jem could not feel temperature the way humans could; nor could he experience touch or sensation in the way others did. Tessa guessed that it must be terribly isolating.

Jem lowered his hood and took a step toward her, the only remaining silver streak against his dark hair shining in the dull sunlight.  _How was your Christmas?_ he asked.

"I was in New York with Magnus and Ragnor," Tessa answered, grinning slightly at the memory. "Catarina joined us when she could. It was one of the nicest holidays I have had in years." She didn't ask Jem how  _his_ Christmas was in return; she already knew what the answer would be. "Shortly after New Year's I traveled to San Francisco."

Jem did not speak; he waited for her to continue, and Tessa could sense his full attention was on her. She took a deep breath and said, "I disguised myself as one of Grace's friends and spent an afternoon at the Cartwrights'. Abby is doing well," she reassured Jem. "She is quiet but extraordinarily polite. I can see much of Jonathan in her, lurking just beneath the surface."

 _Do you believe that she is ready?_ Jem asked.

Tessa nodded. There were less than four months until Abby would find herself in 1878. "She has always been ready," she said solemnly before upturning her gaze to Jem's closed eyes. "Are  _you_ ready?" she countered.

Jem did not speak for a long time, and Tessa briefly feared she had been too forward. But his voice echoing in her mind was soft.  _Yes,_ he replied.  _I believe I am. I am not entirely certain what to say to her when she returns_ _here, however. I fear that she will not…wish to have such a reminder, that she will want to move on with her life._ And then Jem turned away from her, staring out at the boats on the water. He looked human now, Tessa thought, when he wasn't looking directly at her.

"Jem," she said quietly, and hesitantly placed a hand on his shoulder. He did not move away. "Abby loves you fiercely. I am certain that she will be overjoyed to discover that you are still living, even if it is not in the form she is used to."

Jem looked down at her, his expression betraying nothing.  _I have been waiting for her for a century, Tessa. Perhaps the gap between us will be too great. Perhaps she will not wish to speak to me._

"You do not know that," Tessa argued. "Jem, you are being too hard on yourself. Of course she will still love you. Of course she will." She paused. "If I am permitted to say this…perhaps she will be the one fearing that  _you_ do not love her anymore. It has been a century, and you are a Silent Brother. She will not have had any time to get used to the idea."

Now Jem moved away from Tessa, her hand falling back down to her side.  _Do you not believe that I still love her?_ he asked.

Tessa shook her head fiercely. "Of course not!" she tried to assure him. "I  _know_ you still love her, Jem. But Abby has not seen you throughout the years. She may believe your love for her has wavered."

 _Then I shall endeavor to prove otherwise,_ Jem replied.  _But if she does not wish to see me again, I will respect that wish._

Tessa bit her lip in worry as she stared at Jem. She fervently prayed that her belief in Abby's steadfast love for him would survive every test that would be thrown at it.

She feared for Jem otherwise.

* * *

_**Grace and Jem (1979)** _

**G** race Cartwright had always been a practical woman. Her own father had died before she was even born, killed when a mortar shell had exploded under him while storming a beach in France during the war. Her mother had never recovered from the shock, and Grace had grown up largely independently, taking care of the house during Mrs Cooper's frequent admissions into an asylum. She had died when Grace was fifteen, and by then Grace had the maturity of someone far older. When she'd met Jonathan, however, she'd been completely taken aback and allowed him to sweep her off her feet, her practicality being shoved aside—at least until the realization of what she was getting herself into had sunk in, and she'd called off her Ascension the morning of the ceremony. Jonathan, who had never been practical in his life, readily left the Clave to be with her, despite her protests. Sometimes Grace thought about what would have happened if their situations had been reversed—if she were the Shadowhunter and Jonathan the mundane—and asked herself if  _she_ would have given it up for  _him._ And every time she failed to come up with a truthful answer.

So Jonathan, lacking any sense of practicality and self-preservation, boredom gnawing at him, had gotten himself killed fighting a Greater Demon barely a year into their marriage, and Grace had found herself in the very same position her mother had been in eighteen years before, with a dead husband and an infant to raise alone, a widow before her twentieth birthday. Grace had vowed to be the parent she wished she'd had growing up, and would raise her own daughter to the very best of her abilities.

To her delight, Abby had proven to be more practical than Grace had ever imagined, and she was beginning to hope that Abby would escape her mother's and grandmother's curse of falling in love at such a young age.

Of course, that was before Grace had learned that she had been sent back to Victorian London through a Portal created by Magnus Bane, fallen in love with a boy dying from a  _yin fen_ addiction, and would return six months later only to single-handedly attempt to undo the magic that now made him a Silent Brother by bargaining with the faeries and almost inadvertently making herself the destruction of the Nephilim by unwittingly releasing a century-old automaton army; when that failed, she had resorted to attempting to gather the Mortal Instruments to call forth the angel Raziel and request from him one wish. And, perhaps most unbelievably, the Silent Brother had used that wish to save her, to bring her back to life after her sacrifice, and the resulting heavenly fire had brought the man he had once been back after she had touched him. And, after all that, she was still getting married at a younger age than Grace had. The whole thing was so absurd, so ridiculous, that Grace wondered if she oughtn't to take a leaf out of her mother's book and just check herself into an asylum, too.

If Jonathan were still alive, he would have found the entire thing hilarious. He would never have let Grace forget it, either.

She had told Buford Fairchild this, once, when she had felt overwhelmed by the burdens pressing upon her and needed someone to confide in. He had listened to her story with rapt attention, as if he had never heard a more interesting tale. Grace had been pleasantly flattered by his attention, and even more surprised when he had thoughtfully replied, "Your daughter seems to have inherited your tenacity."

She'd frowned at him. "My...tenacity?"

Buford grinned, and for the first time, Grace noticed a light spattering of freckles across his dimpled face. "Yes," he said. "Would you not have done the same for someone you loved?"

Grace had to admit that he was right. And she couldn't fault Abby for wanting to move heaven and earth to save what she loved. Even if Grace wasn't entirely sure that she approved of the match yet. She had known Brother Zachariah as a shadowy Silent Brother in the background of Jonathan's life, connected to him by virtue of his ancestral ties with the Herondales, not as a potential son-in-law. It was nothing short of jarring to look at him now and see what appeared to be an ordinary seventeen-year-old boy.

Grace pinched the bridge of her nose between her thumb and forefinger, gazing around the kitchen of the house they had lived in for the past sixteen years. Now that she was required to live in Idris full-time, and Abby would move to Los Angeles after her marriage to complete her training at the Institute there, she had made the painful but necessary decision to sell their San Francisco home. Not only was it the house Abby had grown up in, it was the house Grace had lived in with Jonathan before his death. To part with it would be like saying goodbye to her husband all over again.

She suddenly, inexplicably wished that Buford was there—but quickly banished the thought. This was something she had to face on her own. They were moving out tomorrow, and the place was littered with cardboard boxes, the shelves and walls stripped of their possessions and artwork. Abby had taken Zachariah—James Carstairs now, Grace had to remind herself—to the cemetery to visit Jonathan's grave, but Grace herself had declined to join them. She wanted to visit his grave for the last time alone.

Out in the hallway, she heard the front door open and close, but Grace didn't move, assuming it was Abby returning. She allowed herself to slump against the counter, suddenly unable to look at the newly-inked Voyance rune on the back of her hand, a physical reminder of the sacrifice she had made.

"Hello, Grace," a quiet voice said from behind her.

She whirled around and saw Zachariah standing in the doorway, a small smile on his face. There was something unbearably strange about seeing the former Silent Brother in such a mundane setting, looking for all the world like a normal teenager, wearing a pair of dark jeans and a light gray sweater.

"Zachariah," Grace nodded to him in acknowledgement, slightly embarrassed at being caught in such a moment of weakness.

"Please call me Jem," he politely insisted. Every word she'd heard him speak contained the same measured certainty, as if he always carefully judged himself before he spoke. The earnest politeness with which he spoke could only have originated from a long-ago era, when manners and gentility were taught from birth. "I am not entirely certain that the Brotherhood would approve of me using that name anymore."

Grace nodded. "Jem," she corrected, before gesturing to the piles of boxes surrounding them. "I apologize for the mess. Would you like anything to drink? Coffee or tea? I think I packed the instant coffee over there..." She looked over at the box on the very bottom of a teetering pile and grimaced.

Fortunately, Jem laughed and shook his head. "I don't want to inconvenience you. I am just waiting for Abby—she is still at the cemetery. I wished to give her a moment alone."

Somehow, that didn't surprise Grace. She placed her hands on her hips and surveyed the kitchen, inwardly despairing at the amount of work left to be done. Glancing over at Jem, she asked, "Would you mind helping me pack up the rest of these boxes? We have to be out of here by tomorrow, and I'm not even halfway finished."

"Of course," Jem said gallantly, and obediently moved to stack the nearest boxes into the corner, where they could easily be taken outside. Grace watched him for another moment before turning to her own pile.

They worked in silence for several minutes until Jem inquired, "Has the Clave ordered you to leave San Francisco?"

"Not exactly," Grace said slowly. "I'm required to live in Idris now, whether I want to or not, and there will be nobody to take care of the house anymore. The Law is hard, but it is the Law," she recited, with a tinge of bitterness.

Jem's eyebrows drew together. "You don't want to be a Shadowhunter?" he asked.

"I drank from the Mortal Cup to save Abby's life," she told him. "Not to become a Shadowhunter."

He tilted his head at her words, regarding her thoughtfully. "Sometimes we must make unbearably difficult sacrifices for those we love," he said. "When I became a Silent Brother, I thought only of saving my friends. I did not believe or expect to be cured. I am still learning to move in the world again, to become the man I once was. I can feel humanity returning to me piece by piece. If it had not been for my  _parabatai,_ Will, and Tessa, and the memory of Abby throughout the years, I do not know if I would have been able to come back at all. But sometimes miracles come hand-in-hand with sacrifices. Perhaps it will be the same for you."

Grace thought of Tessa Gray, with her wide eyes and kind smile, and relaxed slightly. She trusted Tessa, and if Tessa trusted Jem, then she supposed she did, too.

"Mom? Jem?"

Abby's voice floated inside from the backyard. "In here!" Grace called, and a moment later she appeared, her hair tousled from the wind, her cheeks slightly flushed. Grace watched her eyes move instantly to Jem and visibly light up. Jem, too, noticeably reacted at her appearance: his expression softened, his shoulders relaxing. He looked at her like he was seeing the sun for the very first time. An invisible current seemed to alight between them, something only they could feel, and indeed Abby moved as if drawn to him like a magnet. Grace and Jonathan had been like that too, once.

Maybe that was what love was.

"Mom?" Abby repeated, jolting Grace out of her sudden realization. "What is it?"

But it was Jem's understanding gaze that she met now. "I was just thinking about miracles," Grace said.

* * *

_**Epilogue (1988)** _

**T** he spire of the London Institute rose above the buildings of Fleet Street like a beacon in the thick fog. I had not been here in over a decade, and yet the sheer familiarity of it took my breath away. It was more than just a landmark; it was a symbol of the past, a tangible link between eras.

But it wasn't just a symbol of  _my_ past.

I looked over at my husband, behind the wheel of our rented car, and saw he was staring up at it just as I had been. He was wearing a thousand different emotions on his face, and for a brief moment the century he had lived was visible in his eyes, an ancient pain I would never be able to understand.

Silently, I reached out to put my hand on his knee and squeezed it in a wordless gesture of comfort. Jem moved his gaze from the Institute to me, his eyes softening, and his own fingers found mine. We shared a long, lingering look until the traffic light turned green and Jem was forced to avert his gaze from me back to the road. But our hands remained intertwined until he was able to park the car in a free spot along the sidewalk, in front of a pub whose name I recognized from my time in 1878. The spiraling gold lettering painted above the door was peeling, the storefront looking each and every one of its years, but I still felt myself calm at the sight.

We'd barely spoken since leaving York early that morning, after spending the night at the Institute there. The choice to do so, however, hadn't been entirely ours: rather, it had been decided for us by the three sleeping children in the backseat. None of them had so much as stirred during the drive, not even when the potholes in the meandering country roads had nearly taken the tires off the car.

While Jem went to retrieve our suitcases from the trunk, I reluctantly turned around to wake them up, knowing that it wouldn't be this peaceful again anytime soon. "We're here, guys," I whispered, gently nudging each of them awake.

There was six-year-old Violet, with dark hair and darker eyes; three-year-old Jonathan, whose blond hair mirrored his namesake; and Jonah, who had just turned two, with pale blue eyes that were a shade lighter than his great-grandmother's. Never had I even imagined being a mother to  _one_ child, let alone three. But Jem had wanted them so badly, and we had held off on trying until we were both certain we were ready. Now I wouldn't change a single thing about them—despite the fact that they nearly drove me crazy at least once a day.

After completing the remainder of my training in Los Angeles under my grandmother's watchful eye, and a short second honeymoon in Shanghai, Jem and I had travelled across the country to New York, where I'd finally attended Juilliard, fulfilling my childhood dream. We'd lived at the Institute in Manhattan, run by the Whitelaw family, while I studied. They were always civil to us, though it was obvious they disapproved of my choice not to throw myself headfirst into Shadowhunter life. Their respect for Jem, however, went deeper than their disdain for me, and so their opinions were never voiced aloud—at least, not in my presence.

After graduating, Jem and I had moved back to Los Angeles to be closer to Tessa and the Blackthorns, and Violet had arrived less than a year later. We had made it very clear that our children would have a choice which world they wanted to be a part of, no matter what the Clave's thoughts on the matter might be. Neither Jem nor I were active Shadowhunters anymore—though we could, technically, still be summoned by the Clave in times of emergency. And that day, I hoped, wouldn't arrive for a very long time.

"Mama?"

Immediately snapping out of my thoughts, I focused my attention on Violet, the first one awake, who was staring out the window with wide eyes. "Is this London?" she asked in a hushed voice.

I laughed. "Yes, sweetheart. Where Papa and I met."

She frowned, as if working out some exceptionally difficult problem in her head. "But it's almost Christmas. Where's the snow?"

This time the soft chuckle from behind me was Jem's, and I stepped aside to let him help her out of the car. "I'm not sure we'll get snow in time for Christmas,  _zi se,"_ he said gently, unable to hide a smile at her answering pout.

Jonathan, who had been awakened by the commotion, was eager to clamber out of the car next, and I lifted a still-sleepy Jonah out last before closing the door with my foot and moving to join Jem and Violet.

The five of us slowly made our way through the Institute's gate and up to the front door; I paused at the steps, my arms involuntarily tightening around Jonah as I remembered collapsing against it upon my arrival back in 1978, weak from the Greater Demon attack and the pain of leaving the past behind, or the bloody battles that had taken place in the courtyard between the Institute's residents and Mortmain's automatons…

A hand was placed on my back, gently guiding me forward, and I gave Jem a grateful smile, knowing he had correctly guessed what I was thinking. Violet clung to his other arm, and Jonathan had already raced forward and was impatiently waiting for us at the doors. They opened before Jem had a chance to ring the bell, but instead of Marcus or Imogen Herondale, we were met with a very familiar face.

"Aunt Tessa!" Violet exclaimed in delight, and ran straight into the woman's arms, laughing. Jem and I stared in startled surprise at the warlock standing in the front entrance, a wide smile on her face.

"I was hoping I'd arrive here before you," Tessa said, letting go of Violet and moving to embrace Jem and I. We hadn't seen her in months, as she was spending much of her time in the Spiral Labyrinth, and the last place I had expected to see her was at the London Institute, thinking the memories of where she and Will had raised their children would be too painful for her. "Marcus sent me a message asking if I could greet you in their stead. He is terribly sorry, but an important matter arose in Alicante that required Imogen's presence immediately and they had to leave."

"Ah," Jem said, nodding in understanding. "The Clave does have a tendency to upset even the best-laid plans."

Since Irina Cartwright's death four years ago, Imogen had been appointed Inquisitor, and she and Marcus were now often in Idris instead of running the London Institute. I imagined they didn't mind terribly, as Stephen now lived there permanently with his wife, Amatis. The last time I'd met the youngest Herondale, when I was pregnant with Jonathan, had been at Irina's funeral. He'd liked her even less than I did—an impressive feat—and had made the ceremony bearable, muttering comments unsuitable for the solemnity of the situation under his breath in a way that was very reminiscent of Will. I'd harbored a liking for the boy since then.

After exchanging hugs with Jonathan and Jonah, Tessa beckoned us inside, unbuttoning her royal blue peacoat as she did. Her hair was tied back in thick brown ringlets, and she wore a pair of black leggings and a sunny yellow tunic that reached her knees. She must have arrived here shortly before us. "I trust you had a pleasant trip here," she said, folding the coat over her arm and smiling back at us. "Magnus told me what you were planning." Her voice still held a lilt of an English accent after spending so many years in the country, as did Jem's. I wondered if the same would ever happen to me.

"He was kind enough to Portal us to Scotland," I explained, narrowing my eyes in mock suspicion at her. "Almost  _too_ kind."

Tessa shrugged, unrepentant. "I might have had to persuade him."

I laughed. After Marcus had invited us to the London Institute's annual Christmas party, Jem and I had decided to take the children on a week-long sightseeing tour of the United Kingdom, as we had stayed in California since Violet was born almost seven years ago, save last-minute trips to Alicante for weddings or funerals. Someday, I knew, we would take them to Shanghai, and eventually Idris. But just this road trip had exhausted me, and we'd been lucky enough to Portal to our destination; I shuddered at the thought of trying to manage them on any other form of transportation.

"Have any of the other guests arrived yet?" Jem inquired as we followed Tessa into the drawing-room, where I immediately sucked in a sharp breath at its familiarity. It looked barely altered from how I remembered it, with the stuffy couches replaced by slightly more comfortable-looking models, and the heavy curtains were pulled back to allow light to filter in, but the grandfather clock standing resolutely in the corner still ticked on, and the surface of the oak writing-desk was scratched from the etchings of thousands of pens and its legs scuffed from decades of absentmindedly kicking feet. In fact, the most prominent difference lay in the massive Christmas tree standing in the center of the room, strung with holly and its branches sagging from the weight of its ornaments.

"Tree!" Jonathan exclaimed in delight, interrupting Tessa's answer, and raced toward it on his stubby legs. Jonah, seeing his older brother's excitement, began to squirm in my arms, and I gratefully set him down—only for him to race toward the door instead. Jem, the closest to it, moved to intercept his path, but something else was there even before he had thrown his hand out to catch him. A flash of blonde hair, the shimmering, ethereal figure of a woman caught my eye, and suddenly Jonah had been gently urged back into the room, a wide grin on his face as if he had been playing some sort of game. I met the gaze of Jessamine Lovelace—still a ghost, still unbearably beautiful—for the briefest part of a second before she faded out of view, leaving only a slight chill in the air.

Jem moved toward me, his expression puzzled. "Abby?" he said softly, and I realized he couldn't see Jessamine like me.

"It was Jessie," I replied, tearing my eyes off the doorway and hoping she could hear me. The last time we had met, I'd been sixteen and snapped thoughtlessly at her, anguished over discovering the truth about Brother Zachariah. I'd often regretted my outburst in the years since then.

Jem's eyes were understanding as he guided Jonah back into the center of the room, keeping a hand on his shoulder so he couldn't go tearing off again. "I hope she finds her peace someday," he said gently.

Tessa's smile had turned regretful. "She used to do that with Anna Lightwood, too. Gabriel and Cecily's daughter," she explained to me, as I'd never had a chance to meet the girl in person. "She's a kind of...protector of the Institute and those in it. She sees it as her duty now."

 _And hadn't that been what Jessamine always wanted? A belonging?_  I thought.

A tug at my wrist pulled me out of my thoughts, and I glanced down at Violet, who was pressing nervously against my side, her eyes on the spot where Jessie's ghost had been. I stroked her hair reassuringly, knowing she had inherited that ability of mine. While Tessa and Jem resumed their previous conversation about the impending arrival of the other guests, I turned my attention to Jonathan, who was in the midst of an attempt to pull the shiniest ornament he could reach off the tree—a handpainted golden angel in the image of Raziel, and likely a priceless antique at that.

Before I could scold him, to exclaim  _"Jonathan William Carstairs, don't touch that!"_  in either Mandarin or English—whichever language he would listen to—Tessa had already reached out and drawn him back, untangling the angel from his hand and placing it back on the tree before he had a chance to protest. She scooped him up in her arms with the practiced ease of a mother and grandmother and smiled at me. "How is Grace?" she asked. "I have not seen her in quite some time."

I thought of my mother, living in Fairchild Manor with her new husband, in many ways more of a Shadowhunter now than I was. "She's doing well," I answered. "When she and Buford last came to visit, she mentioned they were thinking of buying a house in Los Angeles. She said she wants to watch her grandchildren grow up. Not that I would mind it if she volunteered to watch them after school, too," I said with a slight grin. I'd been adamant about sending them to a mundane school instead of the academy in Idris or even homeschooling, and Jem had thankfully agreed. I wanted them to have as normal of a childhood as I had.

Beside Jem, I noticed Jonah was beginning to fidget again, and Violet had detached herself from my side and was climbing onto the chaise longue to get a better view of the grandfather clock. Jem and I shared a knowing look that didn't go unnoticed by Tessa, who offered, "I'll bring them to the kitchen to help Bridget prepare supper, if you wish to look around the Institute some more."

 _"Bridget?"_ I asked in astonishment, but sensed that was a story for another time. Jem took my hand again, winding his fingers through mine, as Tessa expertly shepherded Violet, Jonathan, and Jonah out of the room, none of whom seemed the least bit apprehensive about leaving their parents in a strange place. I watched them go with a slight sadness; it hadn't been so long ago that Jonah would burst into tears whenever he couldn't see me.

Now Jem and I were alone in the drawing-room; I glanced over at him quizzically, and he grinned lopsidedly at me, something in the depths of his gaze that made my heart quicken—we'd barely had a moment alone on this trip. But it was over too soon, and he was gently pulling on my hand, clearly wanting me to follow. Somewhat reluctantly, I allowed him to lead me out of the room and into the corridor, where witchlight torches still burned on the walls, illuminating the tapestries of Raziel rising out of Lake Lyn, holding the Mortal Instruments aloft. The hushed, almost reverent atmosphere of the Institute still pervaded, and I didn't dare to speak, not even to whisper.

We passed the dining-room, its grand oak doors still shut, and the door that led down to Henry's laboratory—but it would just be the crypt now, I realized sadly. We climbed the spiral staircase that led to the second floor, past the library and the infirmary and the other set of stairs that led up to the training-room. At any moment I was sure that I would see Sophie hurrying from room to room, or Will lurking, half-invisible, in the shadows...

I expected Jem to stop at the music room, but he continued on past the door, and his steps gradually slowed as we turned the corner and entered a very familiar hallway. The ancient floorboards creaked under our feet when he came to a halt in front of one of the bedrooms, letting go of my hand to slowly push open the door, as if unsure of what he would find inside. I let him enter his old room first and have a moment to himself—whatever I felt by being back here, his feelings must be amplified a hundredfold. My own room was across the hallway, but strangely, I felt little desire to revisit it now.

After a moment, I cautiously stepped inside Jem's bedroom, holding my breath as if I could somehow turn back time by being here again. As if I would see his Guarneri violin resting in its case (but it was at our own home now, after being retrieved from a distant Carstairs cousin) or feel Church brushing against my ankles (but the infernal cat was at the New York Institute now). Most of all, though, I remembered the silver  _yin fen_ box on his bedside table. The same color as the single streak of silver in his hair that had never faded, even after all this time.

Jem was standing in the middle of the room, his back to me as he gazed upon the place that had been his home, for better or for worse, for six years. The bed he had been confined to countless times when his illness was at its worst; the bed we had first made love on. The window he had played his violin next to, the sound sweetly carried on the night air. The empty fireplace, the thick Persian rug lying in front of it.

And now the room was strangely hollow. There were no personal possessions in it anymore, nothing that marked it as  _his,_ nothing that bore the marks of everything that had happened inside its walls. It wasn't the room that was special, I realized, it was the boy who had lived there.

Still not saying a word, I walked up to Jem and stood on my toes, gently resting my chin on his shoulder. He automatically leaned back into my touch, though his eyes continued to search the bedroom. I waited patiently for him to gather his thoughts.

"The first time you came in here," he murmured, the vibration of his voice sending shivers through me, "I played the violin for you."

I smiled, my arms coming up to wind around his back. "And you told me that it was the first time a girl had ever come in here of her own accord."

Jem turned his face to me, his lips twitching but his eyes soft. "It was. And I fell in love with her."

We had been married for ten years, but somehow, those words never failed to make my heart stutter. "Some would say that was foolish of you," I lightly remarked. "Choosing the first person who crossed your path."

His expression darkened.  _"Abigail,"_ he chastised, and suddenly his hands were on my waist and we were spinning around towards the bed. I felt the back of my knees bump against the mattress, Jem positioning himself so that I couldn't escape. "You are and have always been my first and only love. Then, now, and forever."

I reached up to brush my fingers across his jaw, and he turned his face to kiss the palm of my hand, the golden flecks in his eyes reflected by the weak sunlight shining through the window. "You give quite a speech, James Carstairs," I murmured. "Consider me convinced."

He laughed quietly, running his hands up the curve of my body, his fingers skimming across my shoulders and the bare skin of my neck, goosebumps springing up there at his touch. "And I shall spend the rest of my life doing so," he promised, and finally bent down to kiss me.

The moment our mouths met was like a benediction; my hands came up to wind around his neck and his lips slanted across mine, teasing my mouth open, brushing against my teeth and tongue. We were suddenly teenagers again—but this time we had decades and decades ahead of us. The notion made me feel faintly dizzy—or perhaps that was just because I'd been robbed of my ability to breathe. He gently sucked at my lower lip, catching it between his teeth, and I felt desire pool in my stomach as I knotted my fingers in his sweater, pulling him even closer. When we broke apart my breathing had hitched and Jem's face was slightly flushed.

"We will go to Blackfriars Bridge tonight, after the children are asleep," he said after a long moment, tucking a loose strand of hair behind my ear, his touch lingering there.

I could only nod. "Forever," I breathed.

Jem brought his face tantalizingly close to mine again, his breath dancing across my lips, and whispered, " _Wo hui yongyuan ai ni."_

_Forever._


End file.
